


The 10 Ways to Imagine Series

by ColtsAndQuills



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Crack, Drabbles, F/M, Ficlets, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Poetry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 21:54:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 13,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5021920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColtsAndQuills/pseuds/ColtsAndQuills
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"10 Ways" is an ongoing series of ficlets and drabbles that began on my tumblr blog. Basically, I flex my imagination to think of ten ways to fulfill a single imagine prompt.</p>
<p>To try to make everyone happy, there's a mix of hurt and fluff, of angst and crack, of romance and platonic relationships, and of Reader Insert and NON-Insert fics.</p>
<p>1. 10 Ways to Imagine Dean Giving You His Jacket Because He Thinks You're Showing Too Much Skin (without making him a misogynistic a$$hole)<br/>2. 10 Ways to Imagine Sam Typing Back His Hair<br/>3. 10 Ways to Imagine Castiel Saying "Good Night"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. DEAN: #1 Miscommunication

“What is this?! What is this?!” you shrieked. The fabric of your coat sizzled and popped, the material falling away like the time-worn wrappings of a mummy.

“Just stand still!” Sam cried, trying to wrestle the coat from your flailing arms without coming in contact with the strange goo that was eating away the threads.

When he finally pulled it free, most of your shirt came with it. You weren’t about to complain. Better cloth than skin.

Dean clucked his tongue once and shrugged. “Huh. Well, that makes a hell of a lot more sense. Thought Cas said to watch out for asses. Guess he said acid.” He grinned at a shivering, nearly topless you and held out his coat. “Bit nipply in here.”

“You are such an asshole.”


	2. DEAN: #2 Situationally Challenged (Dean/Reader)

“Where the hell is she? We were supposed to  head in there ten minutes ago,” Dean complained.

“Here! Sorry, here!”

You ran up to Sam and Dean, leaning up on tiptoe to give the latter a quick peck on the lips.

“Sorry I’m late! I was hoping we could check out that new bar after we finish up investigating. Don’t think I’ve forgotten you owe me a date night.” You grinned at Dean, your eyes leading his stare south to the embroidered halter you wore. You had seen the way he unconsciously licked his lips when you first showed off the new purchase at the Bunker, and figured tonight was the perfect opportunity to get your money’s worth. Dean could make you feel glamorous when you wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, but it was still fun to treat him and yourself to something a bit more exciting from time to time. “So, where we heading for this case?”

Dean and Sam pointed in unison to a synagogue across the street.

“Oh…”

Thankfully, your boyfriend always had layers to spare.


	3. DEAN: #3 Murphy’s Quantum Law (Sam/Reader)

Tonight was the night.  _The_  night. That’s right — tonight, cutesy cuddles and hugs would only come in the exquisite afterglow of a Bunker-shaking evening with Sam Winchester.

He had been the sweetest guy a girl could ask for, respecting your boundaries, never impatient, letting you hold the reins on the relationship.

Every tender touch and show of concern was appreciated, but you were more than ready to make up for lost time.

And your attire, or near lack of, would leave no question in the younger Winchester’s mind about what fantasies you planned on fulfilling that evening.

_Creeeak._

You bit your lip as you heard the door open, felt your heart patter in time to the footfalls approaching from the hallway.

Here you go. Now or never.

“Surprise,” you purred as the door opened. “I’ve been waiting for y—”

You screamed.

Dean choked.

“What are you doing here?!” you screeched.

“Me?! I was hungry! The hell are you doing naked on the table?!”

You pulled at the apron, which was the only thing you wore, bidding it to cover up more than was possible.

“You’re not supposed to be here! Sam said you and Cas were going to stay on the case and he was coming home!”

Dean blanched. “You mean to tell me you were planning on sealin’ the deal with my brother  _here_? His hairy ass grinding where I eat my food?!” Beside himself, Dean took a moment to run a hand over his face, trying to rub away the image his imagination had seared onto the back of his eyes. “And I don’t even want to know about the apron. If this has anything to do with that freaky crush he had on Martha Stewart in second grade…”

“Despite personality flaws, I like Martha. Her talents are impressive and pleasing to the eye,” said Castiel. He had appeared at Dean’s side without warning, nonplussed. “It’s a shame her 10 years will be up soon.”

You stood there, mortified, as Cas gestured to your breasts.

“Those are pleasing to the eye as well. Sam must be very happy you chose him,” he added, smiling pleasantly.

Dean passed you his coat.


	4. DEAN: Summer Lovin' (Dean/Reader)

“Put on the damn coat.”

“I don’t need it!”

“Look, I’m sorry I called you Casper. Now put on the damn coat, please.”

“Who are you, my dad?”

“Save the dirty talk for the bedroom.” Dean’s lips pulled back in a hiss. “Jeez, I can’t even look at you without wincing.”

As it would turn out, a tank top wasn’t the best choice for work under a midwestern sun in August. But hey, you had been teased on more than one occasion by Dean for your pale ancestry, so you figured it might be a good chance to get a base tan. Instead, you had wound up roasted.

“Sam won’t be done in that field for another hour, so either take the coat or go wait in the car. Come on, I’m begging you here. I promise I’ll never tease you for being pasty–”

“Fair-skinned.”

“I’ll never tease you for being  _fair-skinned_  again.”

You glanced at one shoulder. It was a shade of red that could rival a raw slab of steak. Fine. Begrudgingly, you accepted that a tan was not happening and took the coat.

He grinned, and you braced yourself for a smug comment, but when he leaned over, his smile brushing the shell of your ear, his voice promised a tease of a different kind.

“Next time we head out, I’ll help you with the sunblock.”


	5. DEAN: #5 Card Collusion (or, The One Where Dean Cheats at Strip Poker)

You had been down to your bra and panties when it came time to fold your cards. The idea of removing either garment was not appealing, especially when half the table – namely, Dean and Cas – still had several layers of clothes to spare.

Sam, however, was doing even worse than you. He was a pair of boxes and one sock away from wearing his birthday suit.

“Here,” said Dean.

You glanced over at the older Winchester, who was all smiles as he passed you his coat.

“You can’t do that!” protested Sam. “That’s cheating!”

Castiel raised a brow. “I was not aware there was a rulebook in place for Strip Poker.”

“Oh, come on! You three have been ganging up on me all night!” Sam complained.

“I haven’t,” you said, pulling Dean’s coat over your shoulders. “But those two might be up to something.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” replied Dean. He idly played with one of the two wristwatches he had been wearing under a sleeve.

“Unfounded accusation,” concurred Cas.

He had on three ties.


	6. DEAN: #6 Sticky Business

“Got here soon as I could!” You ran up to Dean, who was nervously pacing in front of a barn door. “What’s wrong? You sounded panicked on the phone.”

“We have a situation.” He took his eyes off the door long enough to study your attire. “Here. Better cover up and take my jacket.”

“Huh? Why?”

As he edged the aged wood open, showing you what lay in wait, you suddenly understood why he didn’t want you exposed. In fact, you kind of wished you had a full protective gear on.

“Dean… why is Cas covered in bees?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“… and why is he naked?”

“…You don’t want to know.” 

As Dean returned to the barn, there was the briefest of moments where you considered what would be the polite course of action. However, with the only angel in the vicinity preoccupied, you had no voice of conscience on your shoulder to argue away the devilish glee twitching at your lips.

You pulled out your cell and punched in a few digits. At the sound of the voice on the other end, you grinned.

“Charlie, you got Skype on your phone? Wait’ll you see this.”


	7. DEAN: #7 Little Black Dress (Kevin/Reader)

It didn’t happen as often as you liked, but tonight was one of those nights — the kind where the outfit was perfect, your hair was behaving, and by the goodwill of the universe, you had even managed to draw on perfect winged eyeliner. Not to mention, the right little black dress could transform any lady into a goddess.

“Kevin’s not gonna know what to do with you,” Dean called into your room at the Bunker. He and Sam were poised in the doorway, wearing matching grins.

“You think?” Your confidence was taking twists and turns as fast as any rollercoaster. First-date jitters.

“If he doesn’t like what he sees, I’ll be happy to take you out,” Sam said. Even the younger Winchester, ever the gentleman, couldn’t resist giving you an open once over. You caught his eyes roaming and grinned.

“All right! I’m ready. He’s here, right? Let me get out there before I lose my nerve.”

Dean and Sam followed you to the main hall. For all appearances, they were protective big brothers, but you were pretty sure they just wanted to see Kevin’s reaction to your date-night transformation. After all, for you, “dressing up” typically meant cherry chapstick and a clean flannel shirt. 

“Hi! Sorry to keep you waiting!” you called. Kevin turned from where he had been sitting at the table, idly eyeing some of Sam’s research, and…

…nothing.

He just kinda froze.

“…Kevin?” You fingers played nervously with the clutch purse you had in hand. Suddenly, this entire date seemed like a terrible idea.

From behind, Sam snorted. A second later, and you felt Dean’s coat falling on your shoulders.

You looked to him questioningly and he grinned.

“Can’t just shock a guy like that, sweetheart. See? He’s already coming to.”

Looking back, you saw that Kevin had risen from his chair to join you. He still had that bewildered haze to his face, but a smile had him practically glowing.

“You look… I mean…” Kevin blushed, tongue-tied.

Dean clapped you both on the shoulders and started leading you to the door.

“You kids have fun. Kevin, be good to her. You know Sammy and I’ve got a dungeon waiting if you’re not a gentleman.”

Kevin, who couldn’t take his eyes off of you, nodded mutely, his smile still in place. He had hardly heard a word Dean said.


	8. DEAN: #8 Three Hunters and a Baby

“Why the hell is she naked?!” Dean shouted.

“You were the one who was supposed to be watching her!” Sam yelled back.

There would come a time when you would be mortified about running bare-butt naked through the Bunker. But now was not that time. Now — now you were living the wild life.

Liberated, happy, and just as nature intended.

Well, almost as nature intended.

Technically, you should be over fourteen months old. But thanks to an unexpected encounter with a witch, biology had taken a backseat to magic and the impossible.

You saw Dean coming toward you and screeched gleefully, hands thrown up as your little rear went romping in the other direction.

“GOT’CHA!”

Before you knew it, you were snugly cocooned in stuffy, green fabric. Your feet kicked, but no matter how hard they flapped, they still lost contact with the hardwood floor. 

Lucky for you, life up here was almost as entertaining as life down below. Your chubby fingers started pulling on Dean’s lip.

“Sammy, you find a way to turn her back yet?” Dean grumbled, trying to angle his face out of your enthusiastic reach.

“I think I’ve got something, but I’ll need to ask Cas to help me trans— uh oh.” Sam bit his lip to cut off a laugh.

“Uh oh? Why uh o— AW MAN, SHE’S LEAKING!”


	9. DEAN: #9 Break Time (Dean/Reader)

“And when did you last see Josh?” asked Dean.

The bartendress took a shaky drag from a cigarette that had nearly burned to the filter.

“I don’t know. At 1:00? Maybe 1:30? I already told this to the police. Shit, I don’t keep tabs on the guy!”

Silvery puffs rolled past violet lips as she exhaled. From your place behind the woman, seated at the bar, your eyes met Dean’s. That’s all it took for him to realize his investigation was in jeopardy, but he admirably pressed on.

“We know, m’am. But with the growing number of missing persons in the area, we need to—”

You shrugged away your plaid, the motion slow and deliberate. He managed to resist watching until you made an exaggerated show of rolling your shoulders and dipping your lower back inward in a stretch. With an almost innocent subtlely, the edge of your tank top skimmed upward, exposing just enough skin to bare a peek at where Dean’s lips had left a rosey mark on your hip the night before.

The bartendress frowned at the pause, and Dean coughed.

“— need to review all the facts to ensure his safety,” he finished.

“Oh my God, do you think Josh was kidnapped too?” the woman gasped.

This club was a dead angle. You were sure of it fifteen minutes into your undercover perusal of the crowd. So, you didn’t feel any guilt about finding more interesting ways to pass the time until Sam and Cas got back with the car.

“We can’t say anything for sure,” Dean replied.

As the bartendress turned to grind her cigarette into an overfilled ashtray, you plucked a cherry from your drink. It was cute the way Dean was shooting you a warning glare, as if having those beautiful eyes flashing your way would be any kind of deterrent. If anything, it only made pulling the berry between your lips all the more fun.

“Then you’re saying he’s a suspect? Ugh, I knew there was something creepy about him! You know, he was dating Katie when he first started here, but the first time we worked a late shift together he kept–”

Dean’s stare had become unfocused, but the woman’s endless torrent of an explanation wasn’t to blame. You had just drawn another cherry from your glass, allowing this one to linger between forefinger and thumb. While her words fell one after the next, so did the few drops of icy water clinging to the fruit’s skin. They made a slow crawl along your chest before descending to where Dean’s gaze couldn’t follow.

The poor guy didn’t even seem to be aware that he was pulling at the growingly stifling collar of his shirt.

“What kind of agent are you?!” the woman suddenly snapped. Apparently, the game was up, and she was understandably irritated with the lack of professionalism unfolding.

“The kind that is very…  _frustrated_  … with the proceedings of this case.” Dean slid from his stool and pulled off his suit jacket. The way he stalked toward you almost had you second guessing your choice to tease.

But only almost.

“Why hello, agent,” you began with a grin. “What can I– hey!”

His coat fell on your shoulders in a gesture that might have seemed gentlemanly to some, but you recognized it for the trap it was. Before you could utter another word, he had both its sleeves snared in hand, and was effectively pulling you from your seat and away from the bar.

“Where are you going?” the bartendress called after, but her voice was lost among the music and crowds. The last thing she saw was your triumphant grin as you both moved out of the reach of prying eyes.


	10. DEAN: #10 Promises (Dean/Reader)

The old you had been comfy sweatshirts in fall, fuzzy turtlenecks in winter, soft cotton in spring, and faded tees in summer.

But the old you was nothing like the new you.

You could tell by the way Dean looked at you. As if every shard of his broken heart was pressing raggedly beneath the skin.

“Come on, Dean. Cheer up. I thought you’d be happy we’d be working together. Just like the old days, right?” you asked, smiling.

The small muscle in his jaw flexed. Once upon a time, you had made him laugh by laying small kisses against that scruff.

“I can’t look at you like that.”

“Oh, sorry,” you laughed. The black slipped from your eyes like a curtain, revealing a color he still dreamed about. “There. Better?”

He didn’t reply, but pulled off his jacket and thrust it against your chest.

“Since when were you so modest? I thought you liked it when women dressed sexy,” you teased. All the same, you pulled it on, breathing him in as its familiar weight settled on you.

Wearing his jacket, you looked like you. The old you. The real you. The you he had sworn to forever protect.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” you asked.

He thought the jacket would help – that working with you would be easier if you looked like your old self.

“Let’s get this over with so you can run back to Crowley.”

But all it did was remind him of broken promises.


	11. SAM: #1 TLC (Sam/Reader)

The best kisses are the ones that are completely unplanned, more exciting than any cliffhanger, sweeter than the temptation that came before the actual contact. You could say this with certainty, because you had never believed you would have the chance to kiss Sam Winchester.

“There, all set,” you announced, absentmindedly wiping your hands on a towel.

The scent of peroxide hung heavy in the air, and the table was littered with gauze and thread. It had been a near miss, a wound that could have been fatal; a difference of three inches was Sam’s saving grace, leaving him with a nasty cut rather than a severed jugular. 

“Just give me a minute to fix your hair. It’s all tangled.”

The thought of kissing Sam had first flit through your mind months ago, but you had tucked it away as fast as it came, sealed and hidden to make room for the practical thoughts that kept a hunter alive. Occasionally, the temptation to daydream would return, but you never allowed yourself to entertain the fantasy for long. 

Sam Winchester had his brother and angels and apocalypses and random encounters with beautiful damsels, but what he didn’t have was an interest in you. Nothing beyond the standard TFW-business, in any case.

So you hunted with him. And cared for him. But anything more was a pipe dream more painful that the stitches you had just sewn.

“It’s okay, I can take it from here,” Sam murmured. His voice was heavy, the words clipped as your fingers wove through his hair, smoothing the snarls.

You assumed you made a wrong move, your actions too rough.

“Does that hurt? Sorry, I–” you began, but the apology was lost as he pulled you into his lap and whispered one of his own against your mouth.

The press of the kiss that followed, the slip of warmth as he tasted you on a gasp, all the moments that would grow from this beginning were sweeter for the surprise.


	12. SAM: #2 Play Date

Your mental picture of an FBI agent was a confused collage of primetime cop serials and middle-aged white men yawning outside of consulates. Both on TV and in reality, they always looked stern, as if the starch in their suits had somehow leeched into their personalities. Under no circumstances did you ever picture them as gentle-spoken, gorgeous young men with pink and purple glitter fingernails.

Although, to be fair, his nails were unpolished before he had come into your home.

“Agent Maxwell, really. It’s okay. You don’t have to stay here. I’m sure you have better things to do,” you said.

Sam — or Agent Maxwell, as you knew him — looked up from where he sat on a footstool. Originally he had been seated at the table, but your daughter had complained that it was too hard to reach his hair from up there. The small girl had already painted the nails of both his hands and was currently at work applying his blush.

“No, it’s okay. That guy might return, so it’s better to be safe than sorry,” he managed between swipes of the brush.  
  
The “guy” to which Sam referred was actually a shifter, but you couldn’t be made privy to that knowledge. And so he sat, and endured, as he awaited Dean’s return.

For his sake, you were biting back the urge to smile. He was showing far more patience than your ex ever had, which made you wonder if his naked ring finger meant a divorcee with kids of his own, or if younger siblings had given him experience with children.

“Mommy, get the curling iron!”

For the first time since your daughter had begun his makeover, Sam looked alarmed.

“Honey, I think that’s enough. He looks beautiful.”

Sam flushed, but you couldn’t be sure if it was at your compliment or the humor behind it.

“I… uh… think you did a great job already…” he quickly added, but your daughter was of a single mind when she got an idea in her head. You could thank Dad for that trait.

“What if we tie it back? Or do it like a braid? Like Rapunzel?” you offered.

You winced and mouthed “sorry” to Sam, who despite being of an impressive height, was shrinking into his stool by the minute. Still, he seemed relieved by the compromise, and eagerly nodded his consent.

“Yeah!” Clambering from Sam’s lap to a kitchen chair, your daughter joined you in creating the agent’s unexpected updo.

At a differnet time, you would have liked to indulge in the little pleasantries of the act. His hair was soft between your fingertips, and there was a tiny freckle behind one earlobe that would have been wonderful to admire up close and at length. But instead of a leisurely brushing, you spent most of your time trying to undo the spiderweb of tangles your daughter was quickly weaving.

“Ow! No… I’m fine, it’s okay. Just a little…  da– mrrngh! OW!”

Your daughter giggled every time one snagged, and you lamented the fact that this man was sure to run screaming the second his partner returned.


	13. SAM: #3 Locks of Love

“Look, man, I know you like rockin’ the whole I-Can’t-Believe-It’s-Not-Butter look, but enough’s enough. Those Disney princess locks almost got you killed today.”

Sam’s glower at his brother nearly radiated heat. “I didn’t see him coming because I thought * _you_ * had my right side covered.”

“Well, you thought wrong. And with that shag carpet flying around your face, you almost didn’t defend yourself in time.”

As the Winchesters had at it, you worked on clipping out some coupons. The fact was, a sale on Dr. Pepper was more exciting than the hair argument, which had been slowly escalating for weeks. Castiel seemed hardly more enthused. He sat at your side, his focus somewhere else. Probably reminiscing on easier times. Like when the world was ending and Sam’s hair didn’t go past the nape of his neck.

Luckily, this round of squabbling fizzled out within minutes. Dean had retreated to the opposite end of the table, muttering something about having Bret Michaels for a brother, while Sam hid behind the pretense of thumbing through a book of lore. You probably should have enjoyed the serene eye of the storm, but it was too hard to resist the obvious solution.

“Why don’t you just tie it back?” you asked.

Sam’s nostrils flared.  
  
“What, like a ponytail? No thanks.”

Ignoring him, you pushed aside the newspaper ads to rummage through a tin filled with stationary odds and ends. It only took a second to find what you were looking for.

“Knew we had one,” you said triumphantly, holding up an elastic band. “Here, at least try it.”

Sam wouldn’t even look at it.

“Thanks, but no.”

He purposely turned back to his book, succinctly deflating your fun. Unlike Dean, you didn’t find the subject worth pressing, especially when Sam was armed with his bitch face. However, before you could stow the elastic away, Cas reached over and claimed it. Without a word, he walked behind Sam and began gathering his hair.

As might be expected, the unanticipated contact had Sam jerking in his seat, but the angel didn’t relent his grip.  
  
“Cas? What are you doing?!”

“Tying your hair back.”

“Dude, who asked you to?” Sam shifted uncomfortably, torn between preserving his sense of dignity and a reasonable fear of what an angel’s strength could do to his scalp should he move too quickly.

But for all Sam’s squirming, you found the scene to be endearing. This was the kind of thing you had grown to expect of Castiel. There was no erasing his violent past, but he was a peacemaker at heart. At times like these, that gentility was a welcomed contrast to the sparks between brothers.

“Aw, Cas. That’s really nice of you.” You smiled encouragingly as he fumbled with a knot, and although it was a cheap move, you added to the reproachful Sam:  "He’s only trying to help.“

Whether it was the guilt card or Cas’s persistence, Sam gave up his protests. And to Dean’s credit, he stewed quietly to himself rather than making Sam the punchline of any mocking commentary.

"There. Happy?” the younger Winchester asked as Cas finished up. He rolled his shoulders to shake off the angel’s touch, and spoke with all the enthusiasm of the world’s sulkiest schoolboy. Nonetheless, you noted the glimpse he slid toward you, silently hoping for approval.

“Yeah, definitely!” You tried to soften the criticism behind the compliment by adding, “I mean, it’s your hair, but it looks really good pulled ba–”

There was a sudden flash of silver near Castiel’s sleeve. A blink later, and Sam had leapt to his feet, swearing.

“OW! What the hell was that?!”

By the time he ran his fingers across the back of his head, jaw dropped, Cas was already walking purposely to the other side of the table.

“You’re welcome,” he said, shoving the ponytail into a gaping Dean’s hands.


	14. SAM: #4 The Path to Hell (Sam/Reader)

“Sam… This is why I warned you not to follow me,” you sighed.

He wouldn’t meet your eyes as he strained against his bonds. The knots securing his wrists behind the chair were flimsy and amateur, much like the demon sharing the room with you both, but they were enough to keep him tethered, helpless against the narrow blade. Inwardly, you were cursing Sam for allowing such a pushover of a demon to get the drop on him, but no doubt his determination to rescue you had been a distraction.

If he had just let you go, it wouldn’t have come to this.  
  
“What are you doing?” the demon sneered. He held a clay bowl in his hands. With it, the two of you would collect Sam’s blood and make a two-way call to a much older creature of sin that had been terrorizing northern Mississippi for months. “Stop playing with him and slit his throat.”  

“Who’s playing?”

You lazily dragged the tip of your knife through Sam’s hair, first the left, then the right, gathering the strands into your free hand. He stiffened every time its tip kissed the tender juncture of jaw and neck.

“I want to tie his hair back,” you continued. “Try to keep this neat. If things go south, you’ll just go poof. I’ll be the one covered in evidence when Dean shows up.”

Sam was trying to talk over you both. He kept saying your name, telling you how much you didn’t want this, asking how you could betray him. He couldn’t seem to decide if he was more hurt or pissed off.

You couldn’t fault him, but you didn’t have time to concern yourself with his feelings. This situation had to be finished, and quickly. Amateur or no, this demon could pose a serious threat if he chose to turn on you. With Sam subdued, he no longer needed your help. But likewise, you no longer needed his.

“Whatever. Hurry it up,” your unsavory partner snapped. Impatient, he began to pace. Your mention of Dean’s name had him moving in anxious circles between you and the garage door, midnight eyes wide as he searched the dark road for oncoming headlights.

Watching him, and thus coming to a decision, you realized you were becoming good at taking advantage of the fear of others. As the demon remained distracted, compulsively keeping lookout, you freed Sam from his bonds with three drags of your blade’s serrated edge.

After that, Dean was the last of the demon’s worries.

When it was over, and you were messy, despite your careful care to remain clean, Sam was furious. Setting him free had earned you no pardon for your sins. You stood in his shadow as he loomed inches away, torn between the urge to hug you in relief and shake you by the shoulders.

“What were you thinking?!” he shouted. “What if I didn’t show up when I did?! Were you going to pick up some random person to be your tollbooth?!” 

You knew he wouldn’t easily forgive you for running off, for choosing to work with a demon in an attempt to reach Hell’s hotline. But the big threat – the demon who had been eluding you for all this time – had made it known who his next target was.

You would choose to get your own hands dirty rather than sit around waiting for a loved one to die. 

To save Sam, you would sacrifice anything.


	15. SAM: #5 Mission (Not So) Impossible

“What are you doing?”

Sam’s shoulders were tight beneath your hands. You gave him a squeeze in reassurance, but it did nothing to alleviate the tension. This job had Sam nervous in a way that was out of character, and there was little you could say to ease the thin press of his lips, the tiny twists and turns and fidgets. This situation was unlike those that had come before, and none of you were certain what to expect. All you could do was help him to prepare and hope to God it wouldn’t be a disaster.

“Here. Let me tie your hair back. It might get messy out there.”

“Messy? You think it’s going to get messy?”

Poor guy. He and Dean had done a coin toss for who was to get the task. Cas had been out of the question from the start; it was immediately decided his deception would be painfully obvious.

“Calm down, you’ve been undercover before! This will be easy. Once you get the target’s attention, it should be simple to get him to follow you. We’ll all be ready to take him out as soon as his guard is down.”

“Yeah. Easy. Fantastic. I can’t wait. And what will you three be doing while I’m getting this guy’s attention?”

“Acting as lookouts, of course.”

 

* * *

 

“Did I miss anything?”  You had to shout to be heard over the pulsing music as you slid into a seat beside Dean and Cas.

“Nope.” Dean already had his cell phone out.

“Dude, seriously? The sign outside said no pictures.”

“Screw that. This is gonna be the cover of our Christmas cards this year,” he replied, all smiles.

“Should I be doing anything?” Castiel asked.   

You pressed some singles into his hand. “Just wave these around.”

“Why?”

“To show Sam he’s doing a good job.”

As it turned out, Sam didn’t appreciate the sentiment. Nor the feathers, or the glitter, or the two greasy men in g-strings who thought sandwiching him with some slinky dance move would make for a great climax to the performance.

But on the plus side, the ponytail did keep his hair fairly neat, and in the end you caught the bad guy.


	16. SAM: #6 Wake-Up Call (Sam/Reader)

When it comes to romance, everyone always seems so wrapped up in the part about going to bed. And granted, since you had begun dating Sam, you would be the first to wholeheartedly agree. However, as perfect as the evenings were, there was a special place in your heart for the mornings you shared. Especially since you were always the first to wake up.

You see, a week of opening your eyes to a snoozing Sam had lead to the discovery of your new favorite game: the “How to Wake Up Sam” game.

_Round 1_ :  Little nuzzles and kisses. Easy stuff. Perfect for a lazy morning that required no rush to research, or any fighting with Dean for the last frozen waffle. You simply delighted yourself by exploring the curve of his shoulder, the sweet scent of his aftershave as you nuzzled into the hollow of his neck, and enjoyed a few delicious nibbles along his lower lip until he sleepily answered in turn. Fun ensued. Mutual wins for the round.

_Round 2_ : Pretty much a repeat of Round 1, but this time you were the decided winner. Twice.

_Round 3_ : You decided to up the ante with something new. In the stories you read, it always sounded like a lot of fun. And so, carefully slinking your way to a prime position, you cheerfully set out to give Sammy the best wake-up call of his life. Sadly, life doesn’t always reflect fiction, and apparently your enthusiasm was a bit much, because Sam shot up with a yelp and a flailing of limbs, and you went flying to the floor in a tangle of sheets. Dean rushed in seconds later. He laughed for a month.

_Round 4_ : After the results of Round 3, you were admittedly a little unsure of how best to proceed with the game. So today, rather than moving straight to the physical, you spent several quiet minutes simply admiring the waves of chestnut curling between his shoulder blades. Dean wanted him to cut it, but you weren’t so sure. All the times his hair curtained a kiss, or tickled your thighs, or was woven between your fingers – it all made you reluctant to see him ever give it up. 

You hummed at the memories, all the while your fingers playing and weaving, until without being quite conscious of it, you had divided his hair into two equal portions. Grinning, you retrieved a couple of hair ties from Sam’s bedpost.

As it turned out, Cas, technically, won Round 4.

Without warning, the angel appeared at the bedside. He liked to do that. “Sam. Dean and Charlie are in need of some assistance.”

Years of interrupted nights and hasty escapes had Sam out of bed and stumbling into clothes within seconds.

“Are you staying behind?” he asked, looking back to you as he fumbled with his belt.

“Yeah, if it’s nothing urgent. I’ve got to research that case outside of Topeka. I’ll see you later, ‘kay?”

He gave you a quick peck on the lips and was out the door, pigtails bouncing innocently the whole way.

Cas watched the entire thing with a puzzled expression.

“Why is Sam’s hair—”

“Newest hunter fashion.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Say a word, and I’ll tell Dean you’re the one who took his AC/DC tee. Keep quiet, and we both can have our secrets while they last.”

“…Agreed.”


	17. SAM: #7 Payback

One day the boys were supposedly out of town, and you were supposedly alone, and it was supposedly the perfect time to blast your favorite music and dance around the Bunker in your PJs.

One day the boys were actually not out of town, and you were actually not alone, and it was actually the  _worst_ time to blast your favorite music and dance around the Bunker in your PJs.

This was a fact proven by 38,128 hits on a YouTube video uploaded by user “smith&wesson.”

One day a magazine arrived at the Bunker. It catered to homemakers. In particular, those of a same-sex, testosterone-fueled nature.

It supposedly had an article on page 12 about learning to live with a significant other in close quarters. It supposedly shared great tips, easy fixes, and a promising outlook on domestic living.

You couldn’t say for sure if it actually had any of those things.

However, what it did have, was a full-page spread featuring two attractive men. One was long-haired and washing dishes, with fluffy suds climbing up his forearms and smeared across one cheek. Apparently, his hair was making the chore difficult, so a shorter man was trying to assist by tying it back. Shouting from the corner of the page was a bright yellow caption, in sans serif font, declaring: "HOW TO GET BEHIND YOUR PARTNER, IN AND OUT OF THE SHEETS!”

You had ordered 30 copies of this magazine, 7 of which were placed strategically around the bunker.

“SAM!!! JESUS CHRIST, I TOLD YOU SHE WAS TAKING A PICTURE!”

From the sounds of it, Dean had just found the first one.


	18. SAM: #8 A Reunion (Sam/Reader)

You and Sam had both promised the date would be a casual affair, but you both knew that was a lie. 

Three weeks of separation, softened only by brief daily check-ins to assure you he was safe, had certainly made the heart grow fonder, but also heavier. Tonight was the chance to remedy that. To forget the empty hours, and to leave behind those lonely nights when all you had was the warmth of his t-shirt to ease you into dreams.

The candles sat poised and ready to set a romantic atmosphere, but their flames burn too low, overwhelmed by the expansiveness of the Bunker’s main hall. You wound up turning on a few lamps to ease their burden, accepting that a little ambiance was a small price to pay for giving Sam a good look at your carefully chosen dress and make up.

On the table sat a bottle of Merlot, freshly uncorked and chilled, its ghostly vapors filling the quiet. You preferred white, but the red was Sam’s favorite.

Somewhere in the lonely halls, a clock chimed 8, and you laughed with excitement. Right on time, the screen of your laptop lit with fresh activity. Sam’s face filled the screen moments later.

“Can you see me? Am I coming through?” he asked. “It’s hard to get a good signal out here.”

“No making excuses and trying to fake a bad connection to get out of our date, Winchester. Wi-fi follows you more reliably than your own shadow.”

He grinned, and just like that, all the aches of being apart healed over.

“You put on a dress shirt. And tied your hair back,” you noted, grinning.

“You, too. I mean – your dress. You look beautiful.”

“Is that Pinot Grigio I see? Since when did you drink white?”

Even with the slight distortion of the miles, you could see the color that rose to his smiling cheeks.

“I don’t, but you do. I thought it would feel like we were really sharing a dinner if I had it. I know, it’s stupid…”

“Actually…”

Your own bottle of red was raised before the laptop’s camera. You couldn’t run your fingers along the line of his jaw, or smell the spice of his aftershave, but when you laughed together it was like having him home.

“So… how do we do this? There’s so much to catch up on,” he said.

“So long as we don’t talk work, I don’t care. Let’s pretend you’re on a business trip. A plain, boring business trip. One that has no chance of getting you eaten or shot or anything else out of the norm.”

Sam grinned. “Fair enough. So what would you like to talk about?”

“Anything else. Everything else.”

“ _Anything_?” He asked it with a mischievous quirk of his lips he typically reserved for pillow talk. It was only a playful tease, but sparks fired along your skin. When a guy like Sam smiles at you like that, you can hardly be faulted the consequences.

You were trying to think of a witty retort, something fun, but with enough innuendo to pay Sam back, when another face filled the screen.

“Don’t even think about it,” Dean commanded, one hand planted on Sam’s face and shoving him out of sight. “This room is the size of a closet and I’m not going to spend my Saturday evening listening to you two get off cyber-dork style.” He paused, then grinned at the screen. “Well, listen to * _you_ ,* maybe. But not him. Like hearing a freakin’ moose in mating seas–”

The screen shook and went dark, and by the time it came on again, Sam’s hair was disheveled, his wine overturned, and Dean was hollering in the background about having chipped a tooth.

Perhaps a few more days of an empty, peaceful Bunker wouldn’t be so bad after all.


	19. SAM: #9 Heavenly Intervention (Sam/Angel!Reader)

“Sam.. Sam! Your hair! Watch the hair!”

You squeezed one eye shut, trying to find your way between the wild storm of overgrown locks flapping in your face. Being half-blind was not at all conducive to an escape..

“DOWN! DOWN!” he bellowed in response.

While you didn’t consider that the safest option, you realized you had little choice. Between the shouts and the hair and the swinging limbs, it was hard as hell to know if you were being pursued. There was no sign of the other angels, but that didn’t mean they weren’t close, ready to swoop. Best to get things settled so you could get away faster.

“All right! All right! Stop squirming!”

Below, a crop of farmland made for the perfect landing pad. No sooner had your feet touched the ground when Sam tried to wrench himself away. You allowed this.

“Poof!” he yelled.

“Excuse me?”

“POOF! POOF!” He was drained of color, and the way his throat bobbed made you quickly take a step back, just in case he decided to introduce his dinner to your shoes.

You frowned, concerned. You had heard Dean was afraid of flying, but it looked like the short trip had made something in the younger Winchester crack.

“Urr… maybe you should sit down for a minute…” you coaxed.

But rather than sit, Sam threw out his arms animatedly. His head was snapping from right to left, either trying to assess his location or looking for his lost ability to speak English.

“CASTIEL POOFS,” he finally choked out. “HE VANISHES. HE DOESNT SNATCH PEOPLE OUT OF PARKING LOTS LIKE A FREAKIN BIRD OF PREY. WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!”

“Oooh!” You pulled back the corner of your shirt to expose your left shoulder, revealing a circular patch of skin that rose higher than the rest, blistered and angry. “They put a seal on me, so I can’t … uh, ‘poof.’”

“Who’s they?” he sputtered.

“The ones who are out to kill you.”

His brow was furrowed in suspicion, but at least the color was returning to his cheeks.

“Who’s trying to kill me?”

“Some angels who don’t care for Cas. And I suppose they’re not crazy about me, either, now that I’m protecting you.”

His eyes narrowed, which was understandable. Not like the Winchesters had a lot of positive interactions with your kind as of late.

“And why do you care?”

“Because, Sammy, I’m your guardian angel.”

He went silent at that. Perhaps disbelieving, perhaps in denial, perhaps ready to make a run for it.

You pulled a hair tie from your wrist and passed it to him with a grin.

“Now, before we get going… Great as you smell, your hair’s kind of a flying hazard, so if you don’t mind?”


	20. Sam: #10 Driver Picks the Music

The fact of it was — Sam didn’t even like his hair this long. But it had become a point of contention between him and Dean, so he refused to give his brother the satisfaction of a win by cutting it. 

And so, raised on a healthy diet of the best organic food truck stops had to offer, his hair grew longer and longer, sneakily treading a path toward his back, seemingly adding another inch with every one of Dean’s eye-rolls, jokes, and head shakes.

Cas once compared Sam’s look to the “typical Western representation of Jesus.” Dean immediately asked if he meant “Mel Gibson movie Jesus, or Jesus Christ Superstar Jesus?” Sam had been sure to keep his face shaved and smooth ever since.

But the locks remained unbridled and protected, allowed to whip free in the wind after every successful hunt, flowing wild across the sunrise like that of a male cover model on the cheesiest paperback romance.

Until today.

Today, you were tying his hair back.

“Sure you don’t want me to cut it?” you asked.

There was a pause as you lost him to another time, another memory. Some scene played secretly behind his eyes which helped him to make a decision.

“No. This is fine. I just didn’t want it getting in my eyes.”

You nodded, because you couldn’t trust yourself to speak, and followed him back to the Impala.

The sight of the keys in Sam’s hand, the mournful rumble as he turned over baby’s engine, and the ponytail at Sam’s back.  

They all spoke of a truth that the two of you refused to put in words.

But so long as Sam didn’t cut his hair, it meant the game was still on.

And you both could pretend, at least for one more day, that Dean was still with you.


	21. CASTIEL: #1 Going My Way

You liked the evening bus. The media loved to play up the terrors of the night, every corner a deathtrap, every side street a come hither to muggers, but this was the time of day you enjoyed most. Too early for the party crowds and drunks, but later than the white-collar hoardes and screaming schoolchildren.

Just you, a book, and a few miles of peace before you headed back to housing that was a few decibels past migraine-inducing.

At least, that was usually the case. Tonight, right as you were settling into a chapter that promised to resolve the previous one’s cliffhanger, a weight slumped into your side.

“Excuse me!” you cried, but the man didn’t budge.

Without so much as a hello, he had flopped into the seat, head immediately lolling to one side as he leaned into you with a snore.

You looked to the bus driver for help, but she snapped her gum and purposely diverted her eyes. The I-don’t-want-trouble maneuver.

He was heavier than he looked, his oversized clothing diminishing what was a fairly tall, solid frame. It made it impossible to simply shrug him off, and almost as difficult to push him upright.

“Hey, seriously, you mind?” you hissed, seeing him start to teeter back in your direction.

“Sorry, Sam,” he mumbled, chin on chest.

“I’m not Sam.” You groaned at his lack of a response, but your temper cooled as you realized he wasn’t drunk. Not a whiff of alcohol lingered on his breath, nor clung to the collar of his coat. Still, he was out of it in a way that suggested more than simple exhaustion. The contours of his face were too shadowed, and his chest rose and fell in short, sporadic bursts, sometimes so still that your own heart skipped a beat.

“Um… sir? Hey… are you okay?”

His lips stumbled over a few syllables, but then he shifted, trying to turn his face away, apparently uninterested in your questioning.

And that was when his pocket began buzzing. You hesitated before reaching in, but once his cell was in hand, were quick to answer.

“Cas?” a man’s voice shouted, panicked, across the line. “Where the hell are you? Your signal dropped out before we could track it.”

“Uh… this isn’t Cas… but I think he needs some help.”

There was a pause, and you thought you could hear the sound of another man’s voice speaking in the background before the first returned to the line.

“Who the hell’s this?”

“I’m the one ‘Cas’ decided to fall asleep on. I don’t know what’s wrong with your friend, but you should probably come get him. We’re on a bus headed toward First and Maple—”

The phone flew from your hand as the bus peeled to the side of the road, hitting the curb with enough force to send your bag and book skidding across the aisle. You had barely moved fast enough to brace yourself and the stranger against the fall.

“What is wrong with you!” you shouted at the driver. “What are you–”

But you choked, your voice drowned in the two dark pools that looked out from the bus driver’s face. As your own jaw dropped, hers stretched wide in a grin.

“Cas?! We’ll be right there! Hold on!” a tinny voice from the cell phone promised.

You hoped “right there” meant really damn quick. Like, heroes-magically-appear-to-save-the-day kind of quick, because those insectile eyes were advancing in your direction. She eyed your unconscious companion like a winning lottery ticket, but her smile suggested that you would make a welcome secondary prize. Behind Curtain Number 2, terrified young woman, congrats!

Without removing your eyes from her, you shook Cas, hard, praying for him to wake. He didn’t return your efforts with so much as an eye flutter, but a knife clattered from his sleeve and onto the floor. Questions later, defense now. You snatched it up and leapt to your feet, the metal cold, gleaming, and completely awkward in your palm as you held it out.

“Stay back,” you warned.

She laughed. * _It*_  laughed. Whatever the thing was, it was positively amused by your attempts to appear threatening. However, where your shaky weapon waving failed, the scream of a six-cylinder engine made her jerk within her driver’s uniform.

Glass shattered, carried on the clipped roar of fired gunshots, and you screamed and ducked, pulling Cas with you. You lifted your face from his coat just in time to see the volcanic stir of black erupting from your attacker, followed by two men barreling through the bus door.

“What–”

“Not now,” the taller of the guys said, hauling you to your feet as the shorter one threw Castiel’s arm around his shoulders. “We need to get away. Get you safe.”

“I’m not,” you began, but his grip on your arm tightened as they pulled you outside.

“Not now,” Sam begged. “We’ve got to move. Please, just trust me on this.”

Every after-school special, every auditorium lecture, flashed through your mind, an educational slideshow, but in the heat of the moment, all the good advice and warnings weren’t worth shit. Numb, terrified, you were stumbling into the backseat of a black car before you knew it, Cas crammed in beside you.

“Man, talk about wrong place at the wrong time, kid,” Dean said, gunning the engine.

Beside you, Cas turned his face into your shoulder and smiled, for all the world pleasantly asleep.

“Good night,” he mumbled.

You sank into your seat, fingers clenched in your lap.

Your night had barely just begun.


	22. CASTIEL: #2 The Love Shack (Destiel vs Reader & Sam - FIGHT!)

There was no way to predict how the evening would turn out, so rather than dwell on the potential consequences, you flung open the door to Dean’s room, cleared your throat, and boldly declared:

“I’m thirsty. I could really use a glass of water.“

"Shit!”

You pretended not to notice his hand down Castiel’s trousers, or the way buttons nearly flew as he ripped it free in alarm. Cas tried to be more discreet, face stoic, but Dean’s hasty movement made him choke.

“So? What are you coming in here for?“ Dean snarled. His voice was rough. “Go get some water!”

“I would, but my leg really hurts.”

They both looked dubiously at your shin, which had been bandaged earlier after taking a fall. To call it a scrape would be generous; you had suffered worse playing tag as a kid.

“Please?” you added, leaning onto your supposed good side, for some woe-is-me emphasis.

Dean colorfully objected, but Cas, as predicted, was already sliding from the bed.

"It’s all right. I’ll get her some water.” The angel touched your shoulder as he passed, no doubt suspicious, but he was too considerate not to acquiesce a lady’s thirst.

Sadly, tonight it wouldn’t pay to play nice.

“Don’t forget to wash your hands!” you called cheerfully after.

Roughly ten minutes later, you laid in bed, sipping from a glass and eyeing the clock. This was all a matter of patience. The key was to prolong your next move  _just so_  – too much of a delay and things could get messy. Time it right, and Dean and Cas would be irritated enough to call it a night. You had suffered the sounds of the couple’s evening exchanges long enough to have their timing down pat.

Eventually, someone’s weight shifted on the mattress next door, and sure enough, the Bunker’s walls did nothing to muffle a telltale moan.

Phase Two, then, commence. They left you no choice.

You drew a deep breath, the kind to really expand your lungs and build up some volume, and then screamed at the top of your lungs.

Castiel appeared in a blink, his breathing labored, though you wagered that had little to do with the use of power that popped him from one room to the next. And almost as fast, but with far less grace, Dean charged through your door a second later, nearly tripping over pants that hung loose on his hip.

“What happened?! What’s going on?!” he shouted. The light of your bedside lamp flashed in his eyes as they scoured from one corner to the next.

Such a hero, even when otherwise preoccupied.

Cas, however, didn’t share in his concern. Despite the commotion within your room, he was focused intently on the hallway. That made you nervous. If he caught on, bets were off.

“Spider!” you shrieked, hoping to bring all eyes to you. “It was under the covers!”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Before you could protest, Dean strode to your bed and pulled back the comforter and sheets with a single yank.

“There’s nothing here! Go to sleep!”

“But what if I see the spider again…”

“Shoot it,” he snapped, dragging Castiel out by the arm.

You averted your eyes just in time to dodge the angel’s parting glance.

After that, the buzz of conversation hummed beyond the walls, but from the sound of it, Dean’s mood had been soured. If it weren’t for the fact that you had fifty bucks waiting for you come morning, you might have felt guilty. But the truth was, you hadn’t taken up Sam’s bet of orchestrating a Dean-Cas free night purely for his sake. A quiet evening on your end would be just as appreciated.

For the first time in months, it looked like you would have beautiful, sweet, undisturbed sleep.

But then, right when your eyes began to grow heavy, you heard it.

_Creak. Creaaaaaaky. Creaky creaky creak._

“Seriously?” you groaned.

Your threw your pillow ferociously at the wall, planted your feet on the cold floor before it soundlessly hit the ground, and stalked to the room next door.

Tonight, pride was not a concern. If you had to be the most obnoxious person in this place to get one full night of sleep, so be it.

“I had a nightmare,” you whined as you edged their door open. “Can I stay with y–”

You paused, unnerved when welcomed by the one thing you didn’t expect: silence.

Ever so cautiously, you peered around the door jamb, half expecting Dean to be training a muzzle in your direction. Instead, what you found was the two of them, legs stretched out side by side on the bed, almost fully dressed. Dean was sucking on a beer, his leveled gaze decidedly predatory, but it was Cas who held your attention.

You didn’t know the angel in the old days, back when you were told he carried a distinct holier-than-thou streak, quick to command. Or to dominate. But now, meeting his pinched smile, your insides melted to a puddle; the man seated before you was clearly that former take-no-bullshit soldier. And his hunter was primped beside him with all the smug anticipation of a cat observing a cornered mouse.

 _Abort, abort!_ warned the voice of common sense, which sucked, because it really should have spoken up sooner.

“A… actually, I’m good, nevermin–”

Fifty bucks wasn’t worth whatever those looks meant. You stumbled back to make a hasty retreat, but it was already too late. No sooner had you turned when you felt Castiel on you, around you, as if the world began and ended with cerulean light and the scent of aftershave.

“As Sam couldn’t be bothered to come see why you were screaming earlier, I feel safe in assuming you weren’t working alone.”

Castiel’s voice was everywhere at once. It would have been a good time to plead your case, but the laws of physics had been negated, and you were pretty certain your stomach was vacationing in your throat.

“If you two wanted a quiet evening, all you had to do was ask.”

Your feet suddenly reclaimed the floor, but where there should have been grey linoleum lay tacky green carpet. There was no sign of Castiel, but Sam was standing a few feet away, eyes popping and completely in the buff.

Horrified, you looked down. Your skin tickled, as if your entire body had fallen asleep and was just coming to, but your own tee and pajama pants had stuck with you for the ride.

“Whew!” you exhaled. “Either he was being a gentleman or he’s more pissed at you.”

Sam, red beneath that late summer glow, recovered enough to fumble for some cover. He settled for a safari hat that rested on a heart-shaped, leopard-print bed.

“I was like this when he grabbed me,” he muttered.

“You sleep naked?”

“You think we can prioritize our questions for a minute?”

You  _were_  prioritizing. But anyway. If the worst that came of Cas and Dean’s vengeance was Sam’s crotch making a jungle-themed fashion statement, you weren’t going to complain.

“What’s the big deal?” you pointed out. A pair of monkeys hung from the wall, their tails serving as coat hangers, and in the corner stood a tall lamp with a long, spotted neck that resembled a giraffe’s.  “So he dropped us in some cheesy Vegas hotel for the night. At least we’ll get some sleep.”

Rather than answer, he looked to the ceiling, where an impressive mirror hung over the mattress. It currently reflected what could either be a loin cloth or a blindfold, laid out neatly across one set of pillows ( _note to self: investigate_ ).

“All right, so he dropped us in a  _kinky_  Vegas hotel,” you amended. “Personally, I think he went easy on us.”

But again, Sam didn’t respond. Hat in place, he relinquished any backside modesty and brushed past you and to the window, his mouth rigidly set as he pulled back waterfall curtains.

“Son of a…”

And just like that, all of the ease of the situation went out of you in a whoosh.

“… what is it?” You didn’t want to ask, but you did anyway. “Not Vegas…? Are we in Jersey City?”

“Try Tokyo. He dropped us in  _fucking_  Japan.”

An explosive round of knocking made you both jump. You didn’t speak a lick of the local language, but you were pretty sure the shouts slamming against the door were of the “what the hell are you doing in there?!” variety.

Okay, so maybe the payback was slightly extreme, but to be fair, Cas did come back to pick you and Sam up.

Four days later.


	23. CASTIEL: #3 Goodnight, My Angel

Castiel was no stranger to nightmares, but those he had suffered over the years were never his own. He despised the nights when Sam groaned in anguish against his pillow, paced carpets bare while watching Dean turn fitfully under his sheets, those he cared for most facing terrors he was helpless to prevent.

But no matter how sharp his pain, he had only his sympathy to give. He spent those paralyzed hours cursing his very design, repeatedly asking a silent father why angels were not allowed to empathize with the very ones they were charged with protecting.

Until one day his prayers were answered, albeit by foe rather than family. Exhausted and graceless, Castiel finally understood what it meant to have your terrors bite you down to the bone, unrelenting even after you succumb to another day survived.

He could now empathize, but he was no greater a guardian for it. Just another victim.

“Cas, wake up.” You took his shoulder gently, felt the tacky soak of sweat holding his shirt to his skin.

Day by day, his reassurances – the “I’m fine”s and anemic smiles and forced chuckles – grew, but so did the bags under his eyes. Earlier that morning, he had nodded off, slumped in a chair, nearly falling face-first into a bowl of honey-nut Cheerios the moment Dean and Sam were out of sight.

Don’t complain. Don’t let the hurt show. He had learned a lot from watching the Winchesters.

He’d object to being treated any differently, his pride not lost with his wings, but that evening, concern moved you to check on him.

He wasn’t an insomniac, as expected.

Quite the opposite. His sleep, violently gripped within white-knuckled fists, was so deep that you had to shake him harder to pull him from its depths.

He shot up with a strangled gasp, a sound of fear you had never heard him make before.

“Cas, it’s okay! It’s just me! You were having a nightmare!”

His eyes were wide, not bleary with sleep, but pale and shining with panic. He stared at you as if you were a stranger, unable to reconcile reality with what he head seen, so terrifyingly absolute, only seconds before.

You had wanted an honest Castiel, one who didn’t always have his defenses up, but now that you had him, you were frightened. Not of him, but for him. Your stomach was curling, tightened by an unbearably twisted sensation of inadequacy.

“Cas, easy… shh, shh. I’ll– I’ll go get Dean. He’ll know what–”

“No, don’t!” He clutched your wrist before you could pull away. “He and Sam have their own nightmares to deal with. This is the first time Dean’’s slept well in nearly a month. I know. I can… I can hear them.”

You couldn’t hide your surprise. The walls were thin, but not enough to hear a murmur or two if the boys weren’t sleeping well.

“Sometimes… I can still hear them pray,” Cas elaborated. His eyes were on his lap, his face haunted.

You had no idea if such a thing were possible, and neither did he. When he looked to you again, you saw the challenge stirring beneath the surface of his gaze:

_Say it. I’m going mad._

Silent, you moved from his bed and turned to his dresser. He didn’t question as you opened a drawer to retrieve a fresh shirt, and raised his arms without protest when you gently commanded “up.”

The sour tee was peeled from him and thrown aside, replaced with the new, all without a word exchanged. Neither of you spoke, not even as you joined him on the bed, the two of you with your backs against the headboard, staring mutely at the wall.

Once upon a time, there was an angel who mourned his inability to soothe a nightmare. And now there was you, a human who couldn’t soothe the loss of heaven.

Beside you, he dragged his hand over his face in a tired gesture that was decidedly Dean-like; even without his grace, he was still an angel only playing at human. Still learning.

It was then you realized there were no words you could say to truly comfort, not when his suffering was so beyond your reach. So instead, you pulled him close.

Warmth and the heartbeat of a loved one – the world’s oldest lullaby.

For a moment, you thought he might push you aside, his brow wrinkled and the line of his shoulders taut, but after several long breaths he slackened against you, heavier than expected. You were relieved to bear the weight.

“What am I supposed to do,” he murmured.

“Say good night. And sleep. Anything else can wait for morning,” you promised.

He spoke your name and the words into the folds of your shirt, soft and slow, as if afraid of breaking the safety your promise wove.

And you silently wondered what he was dreaming of, minutes later, as a gentle smile finally touched his lips in sleep.


	24. CASTIEL: #4

Castiel had seen the creation and death of the first star, the chaotic fold of gas and atom, flame and frost, a violent grind of nature that silenced all of his family at the beginnings of creation, and despite that marvel and every one to follow in the millenia to come, in this moment, watching you wail in the arms of the doctor, he would swear he had never seen no greater miracle than your birth. Human life was like that, brighter and more beautiful than any supernova.

Pink and wriggling in the arms of your mother, you fussed against this cold, bright world until he moved close, invisible to the others, but not to you. Castiel liked that new life could still sense his presence. In their purity, he was not alone.

“Good night,” he whispered, and you stilled and quieted, your first slumber.

Six years later, no one knew if it was the TV or neighborhood kids to blame, or perhaps you peeked in a scary book in the corner of the library, but whatever the case, a monster lived in your closet, and no one could convince you otherwise. Coaxing and cocoa, chidings and adult logic, you’d have none of it. Bedtime was less ritual than trial, until finally, they bought the nightlight.

Kid or not, you knew some silly bulb had no real power, but somehow, with its glow blanketing you from shadow, you had a sense of comfort. There was familiarity in its flicker, that soft blue light offering a warm sense of companionship.

“Good night,” Castiel whispered, and you smiled into your pillow, and followed a friend into dreams.

He wasn’t always there. Not for that first heartbreak, nor the first death of a loved one. The kinds of moments that always made the world feel as if it would end, until it didn’t, and the next day came. Duty and authority, the type who would destroy memories at will, playing with angelic circuitry as if it were no more than a system of wires to tangle and cross, would make him absent for years at a time.

But though he couldn’t remember your face, and you had long since forgotten his, the night your family was destroyed, your old life taken, he knew you. He couldn’t say how, didn’t think to even try, he simply knew.

“Cas, leave her!” shouted Dean. “The cops will be here any minute, she’ll be fine!”

He couldn’t. He didn’t.

Later, lying in the Bunker, you twisted and groaned beneath heavy blankets, feverish with shock, and it wasn’t until he laid his hand on your brow, smoothed your hair from your face and pressed his lips to your ear, that you quieted, stilled, and thought maybe, just maybe, this world still had light.

“Good night,” he whispered.


	25. CASTIEL: #5 The (Continued) Adventures of Asshole!Cas

The group came filing into the Bunker, Charlie and Kevin shepherded between the two Winchester brothers, but where there were four, there should have been five. However, thanks to an earlier argument with Dean, Castiel had chosen to icily decline a night out. 

Charlie, the most optimistic of the bunch, carried a doggy bag as a peace offering, but it turned out to be unnecessary. 

Rather than finding Castiel awaiting with a glower, the angel was curiously cheerful, and waved them over to join him when he heard their entrance. 

“Good night, Little Sam. Good night, Little Kevin.” He stood over a pen that had taken the place of two bookshelves, the pungent smell of wood chips and a series of squeaks filling the room. “Good night, Little Charlie.”

“Aww, guinea pigs? Little Charlie is so cute!” Charlie cooed, rushing over to take a place at Cas’s side.

“She is,” Castiel agreed pleasantly. “Which is fitting, given whom she was named after.”

Sam’s dessert turned over in his stomach. It wasn’t the fact that the Bunker’s population had risen, but the unsettling way Cas’s mood had taken a 180.

“Heh, you even named one after me?” Kevin grinned, poking a finger through the mesh.

“Of course. You’re family,” replied Castiel, making the younger man nearly blush.

Dean managed to uphold an air of disinterest for a solid minute before he leaned into the group, his pocketed hands and sideways glances fooling no one. “So… where’s Little Dean?”

Castiel smiled cheerfully, reached into the pen, and uplifted a small house taking up residence in the corner. Underneath a cherry red roof and sunshine plastic walls, one of the furry balls was vigorously bumping up against another.

“Oh!” Charlie exclaimed. Kevin awkwardly retrieved his finger from the pen, suddenly feeling intrusive.

“Heh, looks like Little Dean is popular with the ladies,” Dean remarked, lip quirked in a smile.

“That’s Little  _Cas_ ,” corrected Castiel.

“Then where’s Little De–” Dean began, but then he went rigid, mental cogs clicking into place.

Castiel grinned.

Sam inwardly groaned and looked in the corner, where Little Sam was manically gnawing at his own fur, and fully sympathized with his stress.


	26. CASTIEL: #6 Genesis

Castiel couldn’t keep up with Gabriel, but he tried anyway, and the archangel was amused enough by his excitement to let him stay close. The fact was, no matter what the rank, they all had felt the exaltation of their Father’s work. It had erupted around them as atoms formed, light and shadow fractured and fissured, all of it mixed and mingling, redefining what it meant to see, to know, to feel. **  
**

A world was being born.

Gabe had seen the blueprints of the creation to come, dubious about the design of these so-called ‘humans.’ Versions of God in miniature, all the form without the glory, if it were up to him, he’d have spiced the model up a bit.

All the same, the word was that God’s latest and greatest invention was soon to make a debut, and Gabe wanted a sneak preview.

“I’m not sure we should–”

“Shh! Look!” Gabe came to a stop and pulled his brother to his side. “Right down there. That’s the spot. History in the making.”

Despite his earlier objection, Castiel was quick to follow Gabriel’s lead, and peered down below.

“Huh. They don’t look like much, do they? But I suppose they might give us a shake. Add a bit of fun to the place.”

“They’re not our playthings, they’re our charge,” admonished Cas.

Gabe grinned. Castiel could play the part of impassive tool, but he could sense his brother’s excitement.

The lesser angel pressed forward, a peal of awe thrumming within. So, this was to be their duty, their purpose in life. These souls-in-the-making would change everything as they knew it. The idea was so large he shivered, shaking free the soil of someday Amazons, the grains of an unformed Red Sea, the sands and clays of lands he had soared through and brushed against with a fierce sense of freedom.

The falling bits of earth landed on their father’s creation, forming constellations on the surface of the soul. It awakened a flare of spark and fire that made the two angels jump back in alarm.

“And what do you two think you’re doing?”

“Michael!” Gabe cried, spinning about. “Castiel and I were just admiring the ending of another glorious day. I’d say that’s enough sightseeing for one evening, though, so we won’t trouble you with the details.” He looked to Cas for support, got an uncomfortable stare in return, and inwardly wished they had been caught by someone with a modicum of humor. “Cas, say good night to our dear brother.”

Michael stared at Castiel, who remained silent, deliberating, until Gabe jostled him.

“Good night, Michael…”

Not exactly the most swaying of performances, but at this point, Gabe was happy just to hear Castiel go with the flow. The archangel seemed ready to say more, but Gabe didn’t fancy the idea of giving him the opportunity. He seized Castiel and pulled him along, though that didn’t stop Michael from rebukingly trailing in their wake.

Further below, unseen, but always seeing, God watched his retreating children and sighed, as parents often would in the years to come. A simple touch quieted the soul, no harm done, but Castiel had unwittingly added his own artistic fingerprint to this new world.

God smiled and mused:

“And on the sixth day, he created freckles.”


	27. CASTIEL: #6 Sweet Dreams

Dean’s laughter carried, a deep sound from low in his belly that rolled over the grass, warmer than any summer breeze. That was enough to make you smile, but you grinned all the wider as Sam let out a whoop of his own. Brotherly antics. The world might be coming to an end, but still, there would always be time made to forget, to laugh. If there weren’t, none of you would keep fighting.

“Mmnh!” You stretched your arms above you, sighed at the warmth of a setting sun on your skin. “It feels so good to catch a breather.”

Cas, in pace beside you, smiled. “You’ve certainly earned it.”

“Not like you haven’t,” you replied, nudging him lightly with one elbow.

The sun still shone high, but a shadow fell on his face, stealing the warmth that had filled it moments before.

“Cas… come on. War’s not over yet. So we had one bad day, it’s okay. It happens. Things are finally turning around. This mess is almost over.”

“The cost,” he replied, his voice pained.

You heard Dean and Sam laugh again. It didn’t matter that it was only a memory, one of your most cherished.

“Listen to that. That makes it worth it. That kind of laughter will happen for real. After you guys finish this.”

Knowing already what he was going to say, you reached a finger out to his lips and stopped him before he could.

“Nope, not goodbye. I’ll see you again. This is only…”

Stars began pricking the horizon, and the twilight air tickled with the scent of something sweet. In a few minutes, Dean would be swearing after burning his fingers, Sam snickering as his own s'more came out to perfection.

“… this is only good night,” you finished, taking Cas’s hand in yours.

He traced the lines of your palm, the pads of his fingers soft, no matter the number of battles. Angels were made of sturdier stuff than humans, you thought, and tried not to let your chest tighten.

“Not goodbye,” he repeated, his hand moving to your cheek, where you refused to acknowledge the tears that were falling.

“Watch after them, Cas.” You didn’t want to part with him like this, but the words tumbled out before you could stop them. Just as your arms found their way around his neck, your face pressed to his chest, without you meaning to close the distance between you. This wasn’t supposed to feel like a goodbye. “And yourself. Don’t forget to take care of yourself, too, Cas. I love you all so much.”

He held you until you were ready, your breaths even, your lashes dry. You could have stayed like that forever, close, like autumn gossamer clinging to a fading summer.

“Sweet dreams,” he said, and then his face lowered, his rough cheek laid against your own. “And remember, not goodbye. Only good night.”

Dean was swearing around the corner, his s’more burnt. Sam grinned and proudly showed off his own, as Castiel, frowning, watched his entire stick go aflame.

“Hey! You eatin’ or not?” Dean called, waving the blackened remains of his own branch.

Your tears already forgotten, you grinned and ran to join them.


	28. CASTIEL: 8 Goodnight Cas

 

“In the great old room

There was a legacy

And a red scar

And a picture of

The family that’s been reduced to two

And together that pair, were sitting on chairs

And two little lies

And unuttered sighs

And their simple kind dreams

Broke at the seams

A past and a now, and a life full of fright

And a mother’s once promise, whispering

she’ll make things right

Goodnight Dean

Goodnight Sam

Goodnight family of brothers two

Goodnight light

And things that go bump in the night

Goodnight scars  

Goodnight car

Goodnight coat button

Goodnight sex torture dungeon

Goodnight tie

And goodnight pie

Goodnight little home

where I’m no longer alone

Goodnight Sam’s brush

Goodnight Dean’s gel

Goodnight lost wings

Goodnight friends who fell

And goodnight to Crowley, though I’m glad he’s

he’s in Hell.

Goodnight profound bonds

Goodnight secrets we keep

Goodnight, I’ll watch over you, close by as you sleep.”

 

Castiel looked up from his story, which had started on a yellow steno notepad but had somehow gained a life of its own, its text crawling to wrinkled napkins and post-its, the entire lot now scattered across his lap.

He smiled, proud and expectant, and waited.

“Well, that was…” Sam swallowed, but words were elusive, dammed beneath the lump in his throat.

“Great, man. That was great. Just the thing I needed to help me get to sleep tonight,” Dean finished.

Castiel beamed, bright as any kid who had been given a shiny gold sticker.

“Excellent. I’ll begin working on tomorrow’s story immediately. Goodnight, Dean. Goodnight, Sam.” Notes gathered and crumpled in fist, Cas made an almost excited retreat back to his room.

“Jesus Christ,” exhaled Dean.

“And I think he kinda plagiarized, too…” murmured Sam.

“You’re the one who told him to write to get out his feelings. It’d ‘be therapeutic.’ Next time, buy him a six-pack and rent him a few hours of skinimax, will ya?” Dean cracked open the tab of a beer. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go have a manly cry and pass out.”

Sam, left alone at the table, was in no rush to head to bed, the last line of Castiel’s bedtime story spooking away any urge to turn out the lights.

Castiel, meanwhile, sat cross legged on his bed, tapping the end of a pencil across his lip, thinking aloud:

“One Sam, two Sam, good Sam, bad Sam…”


	29. CASTIEL: #9 Pillow Talk (Endverse)

More than games and pizza and email and TV, what you missed most was being warm. Every day the realization set in further, as autumn slipped demurely away beneath the shadow of October.

Everyone at camp could taste the approaching winter, crisp and clean in the face of a stained world. Over the past few mornings, rather than waking to fresh dew, you were greeted by blades of frozen grass standing sentinel to the friends lost the night before.

The melodramatic poetry of it all would make you lonely, if not for him.

“Are you coming?” asked Cas.

You shirked your pants and shirt, a jacket spoiled by the work of the day, and boots half a size too small, issued when you and the sole of your sneaker finally parted ways. They fell to the dirt floor, where they would remain until you begrudgingly pulled them back on in the morning. It didn’t matter how much you bathed these days; you swore the scent of scorched tarmac and choking rust clung like a perfume.

It’s why you slept so well that first night Castiel had reached out a hand, extending a silent invitation. Underneath the camp soap, he smelled of the river, of sweet winds and the color green.

“It was a good day,” he said.

The same greeting every night. It always meant the same:

_You’re alive. Me, too._

You slipped into the sleeping bag beside him, your goosebumped skin smoothing against his warmth. He let your leg tangle between his, nuzzled into your hair and breathed deep. He never thought you smelled of blood.

“And tomorrow?” you asked.

More lines from what had become the evening ritual. Where stale beer and waning pep talks by division leaders failed to draw you peacefully into sleep, this simple repetition with Castiel prevailed.

“Tomorrow, we awaken to the finest powdered eggs scavenging can find,” he replied.

“Mm. Frittatas? With fresh tomatoes. And peppers.”

His lips pulled up in a smile against your brow.

“Nothing less.”

“What next?”

“Next, we pull up our collars, dress in our finest, and go to our day jobs. You’ll disregard orders while out on the daily run, but somehow manage to flatter your way out of cleanup duty.”

His fingers wiggled along a sensitive part of your ribs, a spot he knew well by now, guaranteeing a giggle at his dry humor.  

“And I?” he continued, reciting the usual lines. “I will try to maintain damage control, inevitably be told at some point to ‘Fuck off’ by our charming leader – which I may or may not do, but likely not in the way he’s inferring, and definitely not until the workday’s done – and then proceed to spend the rest of the day  _subtly_  getting his ass back to camp, safe and alive.”

“You will.” That was your part in this tradition. The words he needed to hear to not be haunted in his own dreams.

“Yes.”

“And how’s the day end?” you asked. Your words were soft at the edges. The dark pull of sleep was lapping at the fringe of your thoughts, now that you had reached the finale of the performance.

“It ends like this. Exactly like this.”

Your eyes were already closed, but you didn’t need to see him to know what was coming – the brush of lips against your lashes, and a warm “good night” murmured along the shell of your ear.


	30. CASTIEL: #10 Fallen

And Castiel said good night to Heaven, to the feel of stardust in his hair and the oceans’ salt on his lips. He exhaled eternity, shook the colors of the world’s horizons from his wings, feathers falling one by one, the precious seconds of a lifetime taking their place on his back.

He could no longer hear the grand turn of galaxies, or the parting whisper of an autumn leaf. Not the first sigh of rain, or the laughter of a newborn, cross the world over.

But what he could hear was the steady rumble of an engine, Sam’s quiet snores, and the comforting murmur of lyrics, their singer melodic when he thought no one was listening, as Dean took them home.


End file.
